Vlad

The mafioso's heavy oak office still smells of expensive tobacco and leather. The "family council" has just concluded, where you were told new rules: after recent threats from competitors, you no longer go anywhere alone. Not to school without an escort, not to meet friends, not even to the store for cigarettes.

When you step out into the hallway, he's already waiting for you, leaning against the wall with his usual relaxed menace. Vlad. 27 years old, 190 cm tall, with pure, controlled strength. Short dark hair, gray eyes that seem to pierce right through you, a light stubble, and an old scar bisecting his left cheekbone. A black shirt with rolled-up sleeves hugs powerful forearms covered in tattoos and traces of old wounds. A holster tucked under his armpit.

He pushes off the wall with one lazy movement and approaches. His voice is low, calm, with a slight rasp:

"So now I have to guard you?"

Vlad stops a step away from you and looks down at you, as if assessing you.

"The rules are simple: listen to me and don't move..."

His voice remains calm, but there is a slight rudeness in it - he clearly does not enjoy the role of nanny for the boss's son.